


Cathartic

by ProblematicPines



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Be Careful What You Wish For, Brother/Brother Incest, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Monkey's Paw, Regret, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 15:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17552234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProblematicPines/pseuds/ProblematicPines
Summary: He wasn’t sure how he was even still standing, considering the world felt so much smaller and the floor didn’t even feel like a physical aspect of said world anymore. It was like he was floating in some unnamed vacuum, as lost and as untethered as a lost cosmonaut adrift in the infinite expanse of space.But Ford envied that metaphorical astronaut, since he didn’t have to return back to Earth anytime soon. Ford was bound to this plane of existence, and he would be jostled back into it any moment now with a sickening lurch that would solidify all of the terror that had been building up that night.





	Cathartic

The faucet poured its contents into the bathtub, filling it up with its warm, steamy water. It wasn’t particularly hot - just how Ford liked it. He needed this piece of normalcy to regain his composure after what he’d been through. He stood, still and sullen, over the bathtub as it slowly filled up. Frothy white bubbles started piling up from the tub, soft and cloud-like as they rose into the air like tiny flower petals. But Ford was too numb to appreciate their quaintness, opting instead to lifelessly stare into the water, studying his reflection. It was constantly shimmering and wavering like a desert mirage on the surface, but he could make out his expression: as indeterminate and as grey as he felt.

He wasn’t sure how he was even still standing, considering the world felt so much smaller and the floor didn’t even feel like a physical aspect of said world anymore. It was like he was floating in some unnamed vacuum, as lost and as untethered as a lost cosmonaut adrift in the infinite expanse of space.

But Ford envied that metaphorical astronaut, since he didn’t have to return back to Earth anytime soon. Ford was bound to this plane of existence, and he would be jostled back into it any moment now with a sickening lurch that would solidify all of the terror that had been building up that night.

 

Even through his dispassionate mannerisms, Ford could tell that the huge black bulge of indescribable, existential dread was swelling up in his mind, thick and unyielding and overwhelming, yet he couldn’t really feel it. It was like he knew that it was happening, but he couldn’t feel it.

It was some sick sense of disassociation, and Ford dreaded the moment everything would hit.

 

When the bath was close to overflowing (he’d been too preoccupied with studying his expression in the reflection to pay attention to the rising level of the water), Ford turned off the faucet and allowed the last few drops to drip in softly. He knew that getting a bath was a pretty bad idea this late at night; his parents might walk in and get mad at him for filling up the tub and just lazing around in it. But having bad ideas tonight was something that Ford had come to accept.

He was already naked, standing with an uncomfortable amount of rigidness that was making his calves cramp and his toes bunch up. Carefully, Ford stepped into the bath. The water, soapy and warm, was mercifully cathartic, but it only did so much for him. It warmed him up, yes, and relaxed some of the built-up tension, but he was still in his strange dissociative state. Slate-faced and silent, Ford allowed himself to sink into the water. He only stopped when it was level with his jawline, which was still burning from where hot lips had feverishly kissed him repeatedly earlier that night.

 

The bathroom was silent once more. Ford lay there, legs slightly bent to accommodate the cramped confines of the bathtub, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He wanted to do anything than just be a mannequin of a person, but he couldn’t bring himself to do as such. He wanted to break down and cry and bawl his eyes out, but all he could manage was the faintest of sniffles and the smallest of tears. His overwhelming desire to just slip underneath the surface of the water and never come back up again was getting stronger and stronger, but Ford’s body was separate to his mind. No matter how much he willed himself to do something, anything, his body was disregarding all of his wishes and instead remaining as stiff and as undulating as possible.

 

Ford hated it.

He hated himself.

He hated what this night had become.

 

“Why didn’t I do more?” was the question resounding within Ford’s mind. He was mentally beating himself for not putting up more of an effort, for not setting up distinct boundaries. He was to blame for what had happened, and he resented himself for it. It was a terrible thought, but it was one that he found absolute truth in. Try as he may to try and pin the blame on the alcohol he’d consumed or the allure of his twin brother, neither were the true cause as to what had happened between them.

Ford had been wanting this for a while. But when it actually happened, it wasn’t like anything he’d wanted it to be. It wasn’t like anything he’d fantasized about.

 

It was wonderful in the moment, he admitted.

It had been euphoric, even. It was bliss to feel Stan’s hands, wide and firm and familiar, grabbing and groping at him in ways he hadn’t before, in ways he shouldn’t. Ways that brothers shouldn’t be touching one another. But the cheap cans of beer that Stan had purchased from a gas station just outside of town, harsh and throat-burning in its bittersweet intensity, had loosened them both up significantly.

Significantly enough for the two of them to start getting close to one another. Too close. Intimately close. They had been laughing, talking, slurring their words as they hiccuped and chortled to whatever corny jokes Stan had been cracking in his drunken stupor.

 

But that had led to talking, and that led to sobering discussion, and that had led to alcohol-fuelled crying once the discussion became too heavy and hard-hitting. Ford knew what had happened after they started drinking again. After Stan had sobbed about how he wasn’t sure he was good enough for Carla McCorkle, how he was inadequate, how he wouldn’t amount to anything, how he wouldn’t ever make something of his life.

After Ford had tried consoling him with words that started out innocuous enough, but soon turned more emotional, then Ford was saying too much, until Stan’s lips, plush and reddened from the beer and his crying, were pressed onto Ford’s.

 

Ford knew that they had sex then.

That was undeniable.

He couldn’t remember all the details, no, but he could recall Stan’s weight pressing him down into the mattress, hearing the two of their panting breaths intermingling in the darkness of their bedroom, smelling the alcohol on Stan’s breath and their combined musks filling up the world that suddenly seemed far too small for the two of them to be living in.

And Ford was absolutely mortified about letting it happen.

 

He was supposed to protect Stan from the cruelty of the world, and yet he’d given in at the first hurdle and allowed himself to be taken advantage of by teenage lust and the allure and confidence that only cheap gas station beer could fill him with. If he was this torn up about it, then who knew how Stan would react?

Would he condemn Ford for sleeping with him in a way only lovers, not twin brothers, should?

Would he go on and pretend as though nothing had changed between them, when in reality, everything had?

Or would he embrace it, and try and follow through with their act in an attempt to try and forge a relationship with Ford that he had with Carla?

 

Only time would tell, and Ford was too afraid of what the potential outcome would be to even consider what would happen if anybody else found out.

 

He continued lying in the bath, floating in the water that was losing its cathartic warmth, and as the faintest rays of dawn began to breach the horizon, filtering through the bathroom window in a milky orange shine, Ford allowed several tears to trickle down his sweat-pricked cheeks. The despair was starting to hit, filling his body with ice and making him convulse in the bath as he started sobbing.

Ugly, body-wracking sobs that he only just managed to stifle by biting down hard on his knuckles. He tasted blood, as well as sweat and soapy water, but it helped. It stopped him from screaming out into the night, and he silently prayed that everything would go back to normal.

 

But Ford knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

**Author's Note:**

> Some more Stancest angst!
> 
> So this Fic involves regret sex, something that I haven't really seen in the Stancest tag before. Which is really upsetting, because not only do I want to drown in a sea of my own tears, but because there are so many talented writers that could write this kind of scenario much better than I ever could.  
> I really love the idea of Ford having a crush on Stan, but not really understanding just how damaging an incestuous relationship is. He only learns when the deed is done, and he feels absolutely sickened by the thought.
> 
> I might write a follow-up from Stan's perspective, but I'm not too sure. Maybe? We'll see what happens.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


End file.
